The bright rectangle of the kitchen window shone golden light into the night.
Perched in the avocado tree that shaded half of the yard, he watched Joyce
Summers bustling about the kitchen window rinsing dishes, loading the dishwasher,
sitting down at the table to write out bills. She was so goddamned domestic,
at any moment he expected her to start baking cookies. His pale hands clenched
and gouged the innocent bark. He remembered sitting at that table, sipping
hot cocoa (with marshmallows) drunk out of his skull. She'd been very sympathetic
Joyce had. Really concerned about his and Dru's breakup, the silly bitch.
He imagined the white walls and glossy surfaces caked in her flesh and blood;
her head would make a nice centerpiece in place of those damned silk flowers.
She was alone, again. He'd kept goldie busy for a week, planting rumors of
a new Master in town at Willy's; making sure that Buffy would be fully occupied
chasing phantoms at the other end of town.

Joyce sighed and poured herself another glass of wine to celebrate
writing out the last bill. All done. Another night alone in front of the TV
awaited her. Buffy was out again on patrol. Joyce had stopped off at Blockbuster
on her way home and picked up 'Ever After' remembering that Buffy had mentioned
wanting to see it. She'd hoped they could watch it together, but she hadn't
even gotten the chance to make her pitch. Buffy had been on her way out when
Joyce came in from work. Her little girl, out in the dark facing god knows
what kind of demon or monster. She had some more wine. Wine was good. It helped
her not think about Buffy and slaying. And the less she thought about it the
more likely she was to remain reasonably sane.

There wasn't much resemblance between mother and daughter, except
maybe the hair and the nearly infinite talent for denial, Spike thought. She
had a tight body for her age, and she had bigger tits than Buffy. He wondered
if he should leave the corpse in the parlor, or like, build up to it like
Angelus had with the Watcher's bitch? It definitely needed to be something
special. A simple evisceration and exsanguination wouldn't do. He wanted to
make this something special. Something the little bitch would never recover
from. He wanted to leave her something that would live on the inside of her
eyelids until he got around to killing her too.

First the Slayer's mother would die. Then he'd kill or turn
the Willow witch -- whichever seemed like a good idea at the time. Then that
annoying brat Xander. Then Giles. And finally it would be her turn. He wasn't
sure exactly what to do to her: it needed to be long. He wanted her to suffer
like he had suffered, to have everything taken from her, to know it was all
her fault that her mother, friends were dead. Amputation, now there was an
idea. The Slayer, without her arms and legs, stashed away in some institution,
where he could visit her at his convenience.

Joyce stood up to go into the living room and stopped. An unpleasant
odor was wafting from underneath the sink. She'd asked her darling daughter
to take the garbage out, but obviously she'd blown it off. In this heat the
garbage needed to go out every day. She really didn't want to go outside again,
but she also didn't want to come down to breakfast to a kitchen that smelled
like the bottom of a garbage can. She sighed.

Showtime, Spike thought.

Feeling a little exposed in her robe and slippers she almost
ran to the trash can at the side of the garage. The moon was a thin sliver
in the black sky. She could see the flickering light of the TV from the Johnson's
next door. She dumped the bag, shut the lid and turned to go back inside.
Suddenly an iron hard arm was around her throat, choking off her scream.

"Evenin', Missus," a familiar British accent. Not
Giles.

"Spike," she gasped. Her reaction was everything he'd
hoped for. The smell of fear, the sound of her racing heartbeat really got
his appetite up. To his surprise, the feel of her warm body struggling against
him was arousing other desires as well. Experimentally he moved his hand to
her soft breast and squeezed. She flinched, and the perfume of her terror
nearly overwhelmed his senses. He licked his lips. This would be even more
fun than he'd been expecting.

"Let's get out of this cold night air," he murmured
into her ear. He frog-marched her up the porch steps to the back door.

"Invite me in, Joyce," he said. Joyce hesitated, and
couldn't help her gaze sliding towards the Johnson's, a few feet away. Spike
grabbed the back of her neck and squeezed till the tears came to her eyes.

"Shhh, now, you don't want anyone getting killed do you?"
Joyce knew he wasn't bluffing. He released his grip and she didn't scream.
Good on her, he thought as she muttered the invitation.

"Come in Spike." They went inside. To her surprise
he let her go. She wheeled around to face him. He was grinning.

"How about a cup of that hot cocoa then, for old times
sake."

It was 8:34 p.m. pst. Surreal. She now fully appreciated the
meaning of the word. That's what this situation was. Melting clocks and glass
pigeons had nothing on sitting at her kitchen table next to Spike, watching
him drink hot cocoa (no marshmallows, they were out of marshmallows) and making
small talk. Trying anyway. Joyce had drunk two more glasses of wine. He'd
just gotten back into town. Yes, they had all survived the Ascension. Buffy
was fine, going to college next month, UC Sunnydale. He didn't mention Drusilla,
and she lacked the nerve to ask him about her. Angel was gone. They agreed
this was just as well. She wondered what he had in the black leather bag he'd
set down next to his leg. She suspected she really didn't want to know.

He looked so damned young, and innocent with his bleached blond
hair, but after their last encounter Rupert and Buffy had given her a crash
course on Spike. He was a cold blooded sadistic murderer. She glanced at the
clock again. At least two hours before there was any hope of Buffy coming
home.

"You can stop checking the clock. Buffy won't be back for
hours yet." Spike said, putting the empty cup down.

"What!" She said startled.

"Don't worry, she's tracking a rumor I planted. She should
be busy till dawn."

"Oh."

"Wanted to make sure she was out of the way. Wanted to
make sure I had plenty of time to torture and kill you."

Joyce paled.

"Why?" She squeaked.

Spike's smile stayed on his face, but his eyes were flat and
empty as glass.

"Revenge, payback for my Dru. Because I made that deal
with your daughter, because my black princess didn't think I was demon enough
for her, my love is dead, done, dust."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Sorry they didn't get you as well,
she thought. Oh God.

He was still smiling.

"You know I really believe you are sorry. I like that about
you." He reached out and brought her wrist up to his mouth, she flinched
as he licked the inside of her arm from the pulse point to the veins in her
elbow. Joyce shuddered; his tongue was cold, it was like having a dead slug
being dragged across her skin.

"But maybe I won't kill you. It's been awhile since I've
had a woman. You'll do." Joyce stared at him, trying hard to believe
that he hadn't said that. He looked so human. She felt his hand slid up her
thigh like a spider made of ice, one finger hooked in the top of her underwear.
That was it. Her nerve broke. She shoved away from the table, sprang out of
her chair, and made it just to the hallway before he grabbed her. He spun
her around and punched her in the stomach. She doubled over and he caught
her by the shoulders and shook her, his true face glaring at her.

"Stupid!" he snarled. "Do that again and I may
have to go with Plan A. Now, get moving!" Joyce sagged, and went up the
stairs, slowly at first, faster, when Spike grabbed her ass and gave it a
vicious squeeze.

"Have a seat," Spike said, shoving her onto the bed.
Joyce sat nervously on the edge of the bed while he had a look around. He
picked up a picture of Buffy, aged 6 grinning gap toothed from the back of
a Shetland pony.

"Sweet." He opened the top drawer and rummaged around.
"Oh, and what do we have here." He brandished Joyce's Magic Wand™.
He grinned wider at her blush.

"No boyfriend I see. Tsk." He tossed the vibrator
back into the drawer. "Well, time's a wasting."

She watched in horror as he pulled a camcorder and tripod out
of the bag, and efficiently set it up, aiming it at the bed. When he was finished
he came over to the bed and stood over her, close enough that she could smell
him: leather, Aramis, and under it all a faint whiff of old hamburger.

"Right. Stand up. Let's see the merchandise then."
She stared at him. "Want me to do it for you?"

His hand, morphed into its non-human form, plucked at her robe,
she heard the fabric rip. Joyce recoiled, and quickly, not thinking about
what she was doing, took off the robe.

"The rest of it," Spike said curtly.

She slowly unlaced her gown, and finally let it drop. She could
see herself in the mirror alone, staring like a spotlit deer, waiting for
the bullet. Spike whistled in appreciation, ran his hands lightly over her
body.

"Nice ones Joyce. You're in pretty good shape for an old
gal." Joyce closed her eyes as he cupped her breasts in his cold hands,
and tweaked her nipples playfully. "Open your eyes Joyce." She opened
them, as he wedged his hand between her thighs and tried to put his fingers
inside. The angle and her non-cooperation frustrated him and he ordered her
to sit on the edge of the bed. He forced her legs apart and she whimpered
as he forced one, two, three fingers inside her. He growled, annoyed.

"It's like the fuckin' Sahara innit. You know, pet, I'm
beginning to think you don't like me."

"Please. Stop. Why are you doing this." Joyce pleaded.
She positively reeked of terror; it affected him like champagne, made him
all tingly.

"I told you. Revenge -- and a bit of fun. Relax Joyce,
you don't seem to be enjoying yourself." Spike grinned. "I'll just
have to see what I can do about that."

He knelt in front of her, and spread her legs again, but instead
of his hand he applied his cold rough tongue expertly to her lips, slowly
working his way to her clit. Joyce trembled and shuddered, but not with lust.

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear. I'm going to have you,
in every sense of the word; and that means I need some response. Time's a
wasting. You wouldn't like Buffy to walk in on us. I'd have to kill her. You
got me Joyce?" She nodded.

Spike went back to work. Joyce closed her eyes, and struggled
to forget that it was Spike between her legs, licking and nibbling. If she
could only ignore the cause, (bloodthirsty psychotic monster) the sensations
coming from between her thighs weren't unpleasant. They could be very pleasant,
in other circumstances, (with someone who wasn't planning to kill your daughter
and/or you). She couldn't see him, it didn't have to be Spike, maybe it was
George, the first man to go down on her, all those years ago. His tongue,
his mouth, were cold because he'd been drinking soda out on the raft, before
they both ran into the cabin for a little afternoon canoodling. Dear George,
gawky, preppy, snobbish George. Really kind of an asshole, but he (almost)
made up for it by being the King of Cunnilingus. Eyes tight shut, she visualized
the light and shadows thrown on the cabin's ceiling by the lake water as George
teased and lapped, nibbled and rubbed.

"That's more like it," Spike hissed, almost breaking
the spell. Joyce moaned as he slipped one, and then another finger inside
her. It felt good. So good. He began to finger fuck her, while his tongue
kept working on her clit. She started to move her hips in response to the
thrusts. God that felt good, god, god, god!

"George," she whimpered, as her body jerked in orgasm.
She yelped at the sudden pain in her thigh. She opened her eyes to see Spike,
fully vamped out, glaring down at her. "Spike!" she gasped.

"Joyce! Glad you remembered my name." He put his two
fingers in his mouth and savored the taste of her fluids. "Mmmmm, mmmm!
Finger lickin' good. Don't say I never gave you anything." He grinned.

Jokes? Joyce felt herself blush.

"So, is this George someone else I'm going to have to kill?"

Joyce shook her head emphatically. "An old boyfriend. College."

"Glad to hear it." Spike said his words slurred by
the fangs. He grabbed her and pulled her up onto her feet. He nipped at her
ear playfully and licked the bead of blood that welled up. Joyce, terrified,
started to struggle. He shook her in warning.

"Don't be stupid! I'm not going to eat you." He buried
his face in her neck. "Though you do smell good enough to....You taste
good Joyce." She really did. He'd just been having a little fun with
her, playing with her, and adding a little *interest* to the video tape before
getting on to the fun with sharp objects part of the evening; but just that
one taste burned through him like fire. He nipped at her neck, savoring the
blood.. It had been a long time since he'd been this hard. Not since before
Drusilla had left him. Well, he could always have a late supper. Right now
he had other priorities.

Joyce felt his erection prodding her belly, she couldn't help
whimpering when he pushed her face first onto the bed. He pulled her up onto
her knees, quickly freed himself from his jeans, and forced her legs apart.
Joyce screamed into the pillow as his cold cock ripped into her. Spike gasped
and almost came right then and there. She was so tight, and warm; her whole
body trembling with her terror. It had been a long time since he'd been inside
anyone warm. A long time since his cock had known anything but the ice-cream
sweetness of his black princess's quim. He waited for the unbalancing wave
of sensation to subside, then grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back towards
him with clawed hands and started to pump.

Each stroke burned like fire, she felt like she was being torn
apart by each thrust. She was going to die. Right here, right now. Oh god.
And Buffy would find her body. Please no. It went on and on, relentlessly
pounding, cold spreading from his cock, from his hands till she was almost,
blessedly numb when finally he shouted and came.

Spike sagged over her back for a moment until the stars stopped,
then pulled out and let her slump onto the bed. Released, Joyce curled into
a ball and just lay there. She felt him leave the bed, heard water running
in the bathroom. He came back into the room but she kept her eyes closed;
didn't move even when she felt his cold presence standing over her. He grabbed
her by the hair and pulled her up.

"Wakee, wakee Joyce," he said "I know you're
in there. Look at me."

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. The yellow eyed demon smiled
toothily at her from a few inches away. He kissed her, his lips crushing hers,
his tongue invading and possessing her mouth. He tasted of sulphur and blood.
Needle-sharp teeth nicked her lip and he sucked eagerly at the blood. She
couldn't breathe, but that was O.K. because she realized that this was the
last act, that finally he was going to end it.

Then he let her go. Joyce gasped for breath. Spike was standing
near the door, fully human again, carrying his little black bag.

"Night, Joyce." Her jaw dropped.

"What?"

"I'm going now. Unless you want me to stay?" he took
a step towards her. Joyce cringed. He sniggered. "Didn't think so. Now
pet, a few things. Are you listening." Joyce nodded.

"Good. You will not tell anybody about this. If you do,
I'll have to kill them and hurt you -- and see to it that this tape gets distributed
to every mom and pop video rental in Sunnydale. Right?"

"Yes."

"And no more nasty little revocation spells; Right?"
She nodded.

"Good. I'll just let myself out then. And Joyce."

"Yes."

"Make sure you get some of those little marshmallows in,
for the next time."